


The Mechanics of a Hug

by incogneat_oh



Category: Batman (Comics)
Genre: Discussion of Depression, Gen, batfamily, brief mention of suicidal ideation, hand-wavey comic science, it's fluffier than it sounds honestly
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-10
Updated: 2017-04-10
Packaged: 2018-10-17 06:35:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,154
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10588431
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/incogneat_oh/pseuds/incogneat_oh
Summary: “So,” Tim ventures. “It's… what, a cuddle pollen?”Bruce just shrugs. “Something like that.”





	

–

Tim’s wiped by the time he’s back at the Cave. He’s exhausted, bone-weary, but feels good.   
  
It had been a productive evening’s work, exhilarating in all the right ways. After a few weeks of painful surveillance, Tim finally had the intel necessary to take down a violent drug cartel. He’d also stopped four attempted muggings, two near-rapes, and an armed robbery. (Home, sweet home, right Bruce?)  
  
His muscles are stiff and he’s mucked up his shoulder again, gained a few new bruises, but it’s nights like these where he’s Made a Difference. So yeah, he feels good.   
  
He stretches when he dismounts the bike, glancing toward where Bruce sits at the Batcomputer. He doesn’t turn or greet Tim, but that’s not especially unusual. He looks preoccupied, even more so than usual. Tim decides to leave him to it.  
  
He heads toward the showers to wash off the stench of city and sweat, and stops dead.  
  
Dick, Nightwing-suited to the waist, a faded t-shirt on top, sits hunched on one of the gurneys in the med bay. Elbows on his knees, head in hands, bare toes still against the cold stone floor.  
  
Familiar panic pools in Tim’s stomach, desperate, heart-stopping, and he’s frozen for what feels like an eternity. Then he tears off his cowl and starts forward, stumbling over his feet in his haste, mouth hardly catching up to his brain to say, “Dick? What- tell me–”  
  
The older man starts violently, eyes wide and dark against his sickly-pale face. His hands drop from his face to his sides. Limp.  
  
Bruce says, “I wouldn’t get too close, Tim,” at the same time as Dick lurches and grabs him by the wrist, yanking him forward.   
  
Tim makes an undignified sort of of  _fnngh_  noise before–   
  
–he ends up settled in Dick’s lap.  
  
“Told you,” Bruce grunts,  _and he’s still facing the computer_.   
  
“Bu– Bruce, what–?” Tim struggles, faintly, gently, unsure of Dick’s current state, and seriously,  _what_?   
  
“Dick had a run-in with Ivy,” Bruce says, matter-of-fact, and Tim stops struggling immediately. He is very carefully still, mouth dropping open. “He got hit with something we haven’t encountered before.”  
  
“It’s not…?” Tim begins, awkward, and certainly not pink in the face because he is a vigilante and can handle anything.  
  
“Not that sort of something,” Bruce agrees, half-turning to survey Tim uncomfortably sprawled over Dick’s knees. “Isn’t that right, Dick?”  
  
“Yep,” Dick mutters, shifting Tim a little closer.   
  
Tim looks between the two of them, Dick as dejected as Tim’s ever seen him, arms tight and desperate around him, Bruce surveying them with interest and a touch of concern while the computer breaks down a blood sample behind him.   
  
“So,” Tim ventures, after a moment. “It's… what, a cuddle pollen?”  
  
Bruce just shrugs, turning back to the computer. “Something like that.”  
  
“So,” Tim says, again. He’s squirming a little now, frown heavy on his features. “You just… really want a hug, Dick?”  
  
Dick shakes his head, pressing his forehead into Tim’s shoulder. “It’s not that simple,” he says.   
  
“I’ve been told I am a fairly intelligent young man,” Tim says, raising his eyebrows. “Want to try me?”  
  
Dick shakes his head, face hidden in the back of the Red Robin uniform, so Tim can’t even catch his eye. There is something strange going on here.  
  
It surprises Tim when Bruce speaks. “He gets exceedingly depressed when he’s not in direct physical contact with someone.”   
  
“That true?” Tim nudges Dick with his elbow, feels Dick nod against his back.   
  
“You know… that crushing sense of depression? Like,” Dick chews his lip. “It’s. A physical weight. Makes it hard to breathe?”  
  
“Yeah,” Tim says, soft. He smiles, wryly. “I sort of hoped you didn’t, though.”  
  
Dick shudders. “I just can’t. When I'm– it’s like, every bad thing, every bad thought, just. Keep going. Every mistake I ever–” he stops, swallows, while Tim tries to shift in his hold. Dick shakes his head, voice dropping to a mumble. “Almost drove the bike off Gotham bridge. Hadda… keep reminding myself it was the plant talking.”  
  
Tim gives a fullbody flinch, but suppresses his panic for later when he’s got a couple of hours to spare. (Terror like this really deserves his full attention, because  _Dick._ )  
  
Dick continues, voice a bit stronger now, “You being here helps a lot, though. I can’t tell you how much better I feel already.”  
  
“Bruce, how could you not hug your son?” Tim sighs, going for normalcy. “Seriously.”  
  
“I don’t know what his problem is,” Dick says. It’s clear he’s trying hard, but is still not himself. “I’m adorable.”   
  
“Don’t mind me,” Bruce says, with his back to them. “I’ll just double check and make sure it’s not fatal, if that’s okay with you two.” Bruce sarcasm. Ouch.  
  
“He’s only saying that because he’s emotionally stunted,” Tim stage-whispers, and feels Dick’s smile against his hair.   
  
Bruce grunts, fingers racing across the keyboard, but Tim catches his look of approval.  
  
Then Tim gently pushes back from Dick, sliding off him.   
  
Dick’s wide-eyed, panicked, trying to hold him in place, when Tim says, “One sec, Dick, I swear I’m not going anywhere. I’m just–” He unclasps his cape, balling it up and tossing it to the floor. He leads Dick’s hands to his shoulders and smiles encouragingly, before fumbling to get rid of his bandoliers, belt and gloves. He slings them all to make a pile on the floor. “My cape was kind of choking me,” he explains, letting Dick pull him back up onto the gurney and his lap. “I mean, if I’m gonna be here awhile, I may as well get comfy, right?”   
  
“You’re the best, Timmy,” Dick says, small and sad, and his breath tickles Tim’s neck.   
  
Tim tightens his arms around Dick momentarily, rests his chin in the mop of dark hair. He knows Bruce is watching them closely and doesn’t care. He just wants Dick back to normal.  
  
–  
  
“You know, Dick,” Tim starts, conversationally. “This isn’t that much different to usual.”  
  
“Being in my lap?” Dick sounds confused.  
  
“Should I not be here for this conversation?”  
  
“Grow up, Bruce,” Tim says. After a slight pause, he says, “My belt is over there, otherwise I would throw a batarang at you.”  
  
“Noted.”  
  
“Anyway,” Tim draws himself up, haughty, in spite of the fact he’s sitting in his brother’s lap. He’s addressing Dick now. “I mean your post-patrol tackle hugs.”  
  
“Don’t complain,” Dick says, and he’s actually grinning. Admittedly a little smaller than usual, less bright, but a grin nonetheless. “I usually aim for the practice mats.”   
  
“You can’t hit that target every time,” Tim says, an air of sarcasm.  
  
“I said I was sorry–”  
  
“You fractured my elbow, Dick,” Tim is laughing now, genuine amusement and relief that Dick is visibly doing better. He’s much less pale than before, and he’s acting more like himself. “ _It still hurts when it rains_.”  
  
“How many times d'you want me to say it?”  
  
“I don’t want your apologies,” Tim says, a little breathless and still laughing. “It’s mostly that you  _continue to tackle me for hugs_  that’s the issue here.”  
  
Dick gives him a squeeze, looking up at him from under his dark hair. His lips twitch. “You know you love it.”  
  
“The fact that I’m the only one who doesn’t nerve-strike you–”   
  
“Father,” Damian’s voice echoes, incredulous, throughout the cave. The boy himself stands a few feet away, hands on hips, staring, horrified, through the white lenses of his domino mask.  
  
Tim winces.  
  
“How are these…  _imbeciles_ ,” he’s bursting, now, red-faced and furious. “Still allowed in the Cave?”  
  
“Hello, Damian.”  
  
“They’re desecrating it, Father! If– if Drake’s decided to– to  _slut around_ with Grayson, that’s bad enough, but  _here_?”  
  
“Damian, you shut your mouth until you know the facts,” Bruce snaps, turning to face the boy. Damian shrinks down, looking suddenly small in the bright-coloured uniform. “I taught you better than that.”  
  
“Very well, Father.” Damian isn’t meeting anyone’s gaze.   
  
“Apologise to Tim.”  
  
“But–!”  
  
“It’s fine, Bruce,” Tim mumbles, awkwardly, but Bruce ignores him. Dick’s arms tighten momentarily, and isn’t it just like him to be comforting Tim, even now.  
  
“ _That was not a request_ , Damian. It’s about time you showed this family some respect.”  
  
The silence is long and awkward. Damian appears to be centring himself.  
  
“Sorry, Drake,” he says petulantly, finally.   
  
“We’ll call it square if you come here a sec,” Tim says.   
  
Damian’s suspicious, but barring no objection from his father, he cautiously moves closer. Tim gestures impatiently, and Damian stomps two steps closer, a ridiculous pout on his small face.   
  
Then Tim grabs him by the hood, and it’s a smooth transition from being in Dick’s lap to handing him Damian.  
  
Dick tightens his arms around the bewildered vigilante while Tim gestures elegantly. “Presenting Robin v5. Ten pounds of rage in a four-and-a-half pound bag, conveniently compact for all your hugging needs.” He smiles at Dick, says, “I’m gonna grab a shower and change, okay?”  
  
“Drake–!”   
  
“Hush up and hug your brother, Damian, I’ll be back soon.”  
  
“ _Father_!”  
  
“Tough luck, troll, your Dad’s with me on this one,” Tim actually  _winks_ , and yeah, Damian is going to get him back for that with some disproportionate form of revenge. Like beheading him, maybe.  
  
“So, D,” Dick says, feigning nonchalance. “How was your patrol?”  
  
On his way to the showers, clean sweats and towel in hand (Alfred is officially Tim’s Favourite Person Ever), Tim hears Bruce say, “Dick had a run-in with Ivy. I’m testing him now, but it looks like he was hit with– er, what did Tim call it?– ‘cuddle pollen’.”  
  
Dick’s voice is a mumble when he explains, “It’s not as pleasant as it sounds.”  
  
“Are you kidding, Grayson?” Damian’s horrified. “That sounds nightmarish!”  
  
–  
  
It’s not long before Tim re-enters the Cave proper, delightfully clean, dressed in sweatpants and one of Dick’s old shirts (Tim had appropriated it long ago). Still drying his hair with one of the obscenely fluffy towels that undermine the entire cave aesthetic, he approaches Bruce at the computer.  
  
“How’s it look?”  
  
“It looks like a plant-based substance that messes directly with the limbic system.”  
  
Tim represses the urge to sigh. It’s sometimes hard to tell if Bruce is preoccupied enough he forgets he isn’t surrounded by idiots, or if he’s just being facetious. “Anything else?”  
  
Bruce surveys the text scrolling rapidly across the screen. He grunts.  
  
Tim leans against the console, taps his chin with a finger. “I was thinking,” he starts, a bit hesitant.  
  
His mentor turns, examining him seriously. Tim flushes slightly under the attention, but Bruce had long ago learned that Tim was usually worth listening to.   
  
He clears his throat. “Well, you know how Dick is typically a… er, affectionate person?”  
  
There’s a movement from the gurney, a half-syllable from Dick cut off by– “Don’t even  _try_ denying it, Grayson.”   
  
Dick shrugs helplessly, pulls Damian a little closer.  
  
…And aww, the teeny assassin is surprisingly cute when he’s not being violent and is cuddled in Dick’s arms.  
  
“Anyway,” Tim continues, smothering the thought. “It occurs to me that maybe it’s not the physical contact that is helping the symptoms. It could just be that that’s typically the comfort Dick seeks when he is feeling down. Err, like how Damian insults everyone. And how I withdraw. And you.” Bruce’s eyebrows raise. “Um.”  
  
“Watch  _Pretty Woman_  and eat chocolate ice-cream,” Dick suggests.  
  
Bruce turns to stare at his oldest son. After a long moment, in which Tim only panics slightly, Bruce says, quiet, slow, “That was one time. And the remote was broken.”  
  
There is another moment of silence, where the three younger vigilantes try to determine if the Batman is being serious. Then Dick gives a snort of laughter, and Bruce’s lip twitches. He turns back to Tim, the signal to continue.  
  
Tim smothers a smile of his own. “I just think it’s worth looking into. Physical affection is a security blanket to Dick. It’s obvious that his typical responses are exaggerated… so I think whatever comfort he’d normally take from physical contact or affection is probably exaggerated, too.”  
  
Bruce nods. “That would make sense. His improvement with you boys around is unbelievable.” He looks back to the computer, and Tim relaxes slightly. “In any case, it doesn’t look as if it’s physically harmful to let the effects wear off naturally. We’ll work on developing an antidote. In the meantime, I guess we deal with Dick and see what we can dig up.”  
  
“I’m right here,” Dick says, plaintively. There’s a slight pause, and then he says, “Your bedside manner sucks.”  
  
Tim heads over to the gurney, bare feet cold against the cave floor. “Okay, Damian, I guess I’ll take it from here.”  
  
“Thank God,” Damian says, mostly for appearances. Then, when he thinks Tim isn’t looking, Damian flushes pink and presses a quick kiss to his brother’s cheek before sliding off his lap.  
  
“Thanks for sitting with me, D,” Dick says, smiling, as Tim lets Dick pull him close. Settling Tim back in his lap, he sighs, says, “You’re a much better lap-sitter, Damian. Timmy’s butt is way too bony.”  
  
Damian looks appropriately disgusted. “That is more information about Drake than I ever wanted to know.”  
  
Tim sticks out his tongue and Dick cuddles him tighter.   
  
As Damian heads to the showers, grumbling to himself, Bruce says, “There’s no reason for you boys to stay down here. You may as well go upstairs and rest.”  
  
Tim half-turns and looks down to meet Dick’s gaze. “You want to try sleep?”  
  
Dick gives an uncomfortable half-shrug, looking suddenly worried and upset, and Tim realises his mistake.  
  
“But in my room,” he adds, scowling. “Yours is a disaster zone.”   
  
His brother looks almost painfully relieved, and Tim can’t help but tighten his grip slightly. He hates seeing Dick this vulnerable.   
  
When Dick doesn’t respond right away, still looking hesitant, Tim says, “If you don’t want to sleep, we can marathon chick flicks or something, if you want.” Gentle. Earnest. (Dick can never resist the puppy-dog eyes.)  
  
Dick opens his mouth to speak, but Bruce interrupts, deadpans, “I can’t believe any criminal has ever been intimidated by either one of you.”   
  
As one, Tim and Dick turn to face their adoptive dad, identical scowls on their faces. “Hey,” Dick starts, indignant. “I scared criminals wearing a pair of scaly green underwear, B, you do not get to undermine my badassery.”   
  
“Let’s go upstairs, Dick,” Tim says, and they manage to slide off the gurney and shuffle awkwardly toward the stairs.  
  
Bruce stands from his chair, turns to survey them. “You going to throw up, Dick?”  
  
Dick scowls, but before he can respond Tim says, concerned, “You feeling nauseous?”  
  
“No,” he pouts, then, “B, don’t even–”  
  
“When Dick was small,” Bruce starts to explain. “He used to vomit when he got upset.”  
  
“That is both the saddest and most adorable thing I think I’ve ever heard,” Tim says, while Dick says,  
  
“Is this for the  _Pretty Woman_  crack? I don’t give out  _your_  secrets like candy, Bruce.”  
  
Bruce ignores them both, says, “Tim, buzz me if his condition changes.”   
  
He moves forward, a hand on Dick’s shoulder, and kisses his forehead. Dick grins, arms still loosely around Tim, says, “Really, B? According to my calendar, you’re still 4 and a half months from your next spontaneous burst of affection.”  
  
“Goodnight, Dick,” Bruce says, tone conveying fondness and irritation all at once, and then, “Tim, don’t think you’re getting out of this.” Tim sort-of almost flinches, a guilty start, and stops trying to pull Dick away. Bruce stoops further to kiss Tim’s forehead, too ( _daddadDADdad_ ), and doesn’t mention the blush high on his cheeks.  
  
“'I can’t believe any criminal has ever been intimidated by you’,” Dick quotes, snarky and sarcastic, as Tim stutters an awkward goodnight, turning his face slightly into Dick’s shoulder. “All this familial affection.”   
  
Bruce gives an almost-chuckle, barely a breath of air, and turns back to the computer. A clear dismissal. “Sleep well, boys.”  
  
Dick shrugs, gives Tim a grateful squeeze, and they begin the awkward shuffle up the stairs.   
  
–  
  
Tim is trying to type a report. It isn’t going well.  
  
His forehead is wrinkling, and he knows this but can’t seem to stop it. They’re sitting propped up against the headboard of Tim’s bed, and Tim is still sitting in Dick’s lap, trying to type. One of Dick’s arms is wrapped tight around his middle, the other hand tracing the shape of his t-shirt sleeve. The good news is that Dick seems almost normal.  
  
Except for the lap-sitting, desperate-for-human-contact thing.  
  
But then, that is pretty standard for Dick.  
  
And as relieved as Tim is that his brother is doing okay, it isn't–  
  
“Did you know you have freckles on the back of your neck?”  
  
–exactly ideal working conditions.  
  
“What?”  
  
“Freckles. On your neck. Right here–” Dick’s hand trails over the spot. A pause, and the hand keeps tracing them. “They’re cute. You got 'em in uniform, because where the cape started, you don’t have any.”  
  
Tim doesn’t respond, focusses on typing the report. He just needs to finish detailing his investigation into the drug cartel and then he’ll be done for the night–  
  
The hand on his neck disappears, and Dick’s arm snakes around him again… to snatch his hand from the keyboard.   
  
Tim stops typing, hanging his head. He sighs, feels Dick’s warm breath ghost across his alleged freckles. Dick brings the hand close to his face, examining it. He traces the shape of each of the nails, trails a finger along the scars and calluses. Finally, realising Dick isn’t going to give up his hand any time soon, he sighs _again_ , and starts typing one-handed.   
  
Then he feels Dick kiss his knuckles, and stops typing again.   
  
“You want my attention.” It’s not a question.  
  
“I’m just kind of bored,” Dick sounds guilty. “Sorry, Timmy.” He pauses, explains, “You can tell a lot about someone by their hands, you know?” Another pause, shorter this time. “You have nice hands.”  
  
“I only need another 10 minutes, Dick,” Tim says. He can probably have it done in a bit over 6 if he has no more interruptions. “You can wait it out, right? Then I’m done for the night.”  
  
“Mhm,” Dick says, pressing his face into the back of Tim’s t-shirt, shifting slightly to hug Tim with both arms.   
  
He seems comfortable enough, so Tim turns back to his work.   
  
-  
  
It’s exactly 6 minutes and 14 seconds later when Tim says, “There, it’s uploaded to the Batcomputer.” and closes the lid of his laptop.   
  
“That was longer than 10 minutes,” Dick complains, voice still muffled in Tim’s shirt.   
  
“That’s not even a little bit true,” Tim laughs, pulling back far enough to turn to face Dick. He examines him a moment, asks, “You doing okay?”  
  
“Uh-huh,” Dick says, smiling up at him. “Pretty good, actually, Timbo.”   
  
“That’s great.” He pauses, thinks. Then, “So you want to come with me to brush my teeth, or you gonna stay here?”  
  
Dick’s brow wrinkles. “I feel okay just now. I’ll be fine to stay here.”  
  
Tim says, “That’s lucky. I didn’t wanna say anything, but I really hafta piss.” and Dick laughs.  
  
His arms loosen slowly, reluctantly, and his fingers twitch a bit, as though to grab Tim again.  
  
“Sure you’re okay?” Cautious. “I’ll be less than 5 minutes.”  
  
Dick releases his hold completely as answer, and Tim gives him an encouraging smile. Then, sliding off his lap completely, Tim turns and kisses him, quick and unsure, on the forehead. Then he’s out the door to the bathroom.  
  
  
When Tim returns to his bedroom, Dick is curled on his side, hair dark against the pillow. He looks comfortable, in his t-shirt and a pair of boxers. For a moment, Tim thinks he must have fallen asleep. Then, horrifyingly slowly, he notices the soft sounds, registers the shaking of broad shoulders.  
  
Dick is  _crying._  
  
And Tim is over to the bed before he can think, saying, “Dick? Dick, what's– is it–?”  
  
“I know it’s the toxin…” Dick starts, voice rough, as Tim settles close on the bed, a hand on the elder’s shoulder. “I know, I do. It's… stupid, but I…”   
  
Tim sighs, wriggling closer, and wraps his arms around Dick, tangles one hand in his thick, dark hair, meets bright blue, watery eyes. “Mm, that’s true. No one else has ever done anything odd under the influence of Ivy’s substances.”   
  
It earns him a hiccup that’s probably supposed to be a laugh, and Tim is lost. He has no idea what to do. Tears are running, unchecked, over his brother’s face and  _he has no idea what to do._  
  
“It’s the worst feeling, Timmy,” Dick’s voice is a whisper, blue eyes closed. He grips the back of Tim’s t-shirt limply. “It’s like… grief and hopelessness and self-hatred and loneliness and  _abandonment_  and every bad experience you’ve ever had r-rolled into one. I know it’s not  _real_ , that everything’s fine. I thought I could h-handle it, I felt fine when you were here but it just. Crashed down. It’s like a physical sensation, and I c-can't–”   
  
Tim is bad at this. He knows he is. He’s lost without a map because his mother’s idea of affection was to hold him at arm’s length, tidy his hair and tut. Because Bruce’s was silence, or a pat on the shoulder on the bad nights. He’s lost and all he can think is,  _what would Dick do?_  If the situation were reversed, what would Dick do?  
  
So he cuddles him closer, half expecting rejection but  _of course not_ because this is Dick, and kisses, three, four times, against his temple. There is a long silence before he asks, soft, “You want to talk?”  
  
“No,” Dick hiccups, pressing his face into the pattern on Tim’s shirt. “I just feel so dumb, ugh.”   
  
At that, Tim pulls back just far enough to see his brother. “ _You_  feel dumb?” he asks, incredulous. “I’ve got no idea what I’m doing! I’m terrible at this, Dick, I’m sorry.”  
  
Dick drags him back closer, pressing his face back against Tim’s narrow chest, breathing in through his nose. His voice is muffled when he says, “You’re perfect, Tim. Always.”  
  
“D'you want a tissue?” Tim asks eventually. His fingers are petting Dick’s hair, slow and gentle. Like Dick does when he’s upset. (He hopes he’s doing it right.)  
  
“Can you reach one without moving?”  
  
“Well, no.”  
  
“Then no.”  
  
Tim laughs, a bit, and kisses Dick’s hair. He hugs a bit tighter. “I’m here, okay? I’m not going anywhere.”  
  
There is a long pause. “Sorry I’m snotting up your shirt.”  
  
“It’s  _your_  shirt, technically. And I’ll live.” Tim waits, bites his lip. Awkward. He closes his eyes in the semi-dark room. “I know I don’t usually say it, Dick, but… you know how much I love you, right? Like, it’s actually embarrassing.”  
  
Eyes still closed, he feels Dick pull back a tiny bit, just far enough to kiss the underside of his chin. “Love you too, Timbo. Forever, okay?”   
  
And Dick’s not crying now, but his breathing is still uneven when he presses his tear-stained face into his brother’s neck. Tim fumbles for the switch on his headboard that cuts the lights, rests his hand on the flat of Dick’s broad, muscled back. He focusses on breathing deep, calmly.   
  
Dick’s awful, shuddering breaths slow gradually, eventually replaced by soft snores.   
  
It takes Tim much longer to find the peace to sleep.   
  
–  
  
The next morning, Tim awakes alone. Eyes half-closed, his hand fumbles along the side of the bed, the creased, slept-on sheets, the pillow flattened on one side. Then he sits up quick, vaguely unsettled, and swings himself out of bed to find Dick.  
  
He finds himself in the kitchen, says to Bruce’s back, “Wizzuhguhnngh?”  
  
Bruce says, “Good morning, Tim,” without turning from his newspaper and he sounds  _amused_.   
  
Tim scrubs his eyes and scowls, sees Dick sitting at the kitchen counter eating breakfast. Dick spins on the stool, an odd expression on his face, and holds out his arms.  
  
The dark haired teen immediately crosses the kitchen to hug his brother, mumbles, “You still not okay, Dick?”  
  
Dick is too innocent when he says, “Whattaya mean, Timmy? I’m doing great.” and grins.  
  
Tim… frowns.   
  
“I can’t  _not_  hug you,” Dick explains reasonably, arms still tight around him. “You have pillow creases on your face.”   
  
As Tim starts to struggle, furious, Dick adds, “It’s pretty much the cutest thing ever, little brother, don’t be that way.”   
  
“Alfred!” Tim hollers in Dick’s ear, earning a wince. The butler isn’t in the kitchen, and Tim can be  _loud_. “Is it okay if I break your 'no nerve strikes in the kitchen’ rule?  _Please_?”  
  
From behind him, Tim hears the very rare sound of Bruce laughing.  
  
He hates his family.

**-THE END-**

**Author's Note:**

> Also on [tumblr.](http://incogneat-oh.tumblr.com/post/16513063557/the-mechanics-of-a-hug)


End file.
